


The day shall come!

by Moringotho_in_Angamando



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Don't Judge, Gen, Random thoughts on random stuff, i don't know what will happen, pre-nirnaeth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:57:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moringotho_in_Angamando/pseuds/Moringotho_in_Angamando
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Hurin's part in the Nirnaeth and its arrangements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King arrives

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins in year 463 - the year before Turin was born, eight years after the Bragollach and nine before the Nirnaeth. This timeline is taken from Tolkien gateway. Please comment what you did or did not like, I would love to hear from you!

The cold wind blew sharply in the face of Húrin Thalion as he stood on the dusty road that led to the North. A messenger had arrived the previous day, bearing tidings that the High King Fingon with a score of his warriors would be coming for a week or so to speak to the lord of Dor-Lómin. Húrin had forced an appearance of calm onto himself throughout that day and the next, making arrangements for housing and provisions and the like, and could hide from all but Morwen his wife the feeling of nervousness that was growing stronger by the hour, until it was nearly unbearable. He arrived at this spot, where he was to meet the King, an hour earlier than agreed upon, hoping to calm down and regain his composure.

The wind to his face helped indeed to soothe his nerves until there was but a slight twinge in his stomach at the thought of the upcoming meeting. So did the sight of the plains unfolding before him, of the borders of the road slowly fading until there was just the plain to the north, the yellowish-green grass shifting with the wind in never ending patterns. Already he could see the dust rising far off, from which slowly and steadily the blue of banners and the silver of helms emerged.  
He liked it out here: the wind, and the sights, and, most of all, the Eldar who passed sometimes through these lands. Sometimes they were heading to Húrin himself, but mostly passed by, going from Hithlum further south, to Nevrast or Nargothrond, and then back north to their lord. When that was the case, Húrin got only the glimpse of mighty figures on tall horses, and a word or two, if that. Sadly, even those meetings were becoming brief, and before long were accounted a rarity in the land.

Húrin himself could not fully understand his love for those people. Many of his men rebuked him, saying that such a love was unreasonable, and that without the Elven-lords his father and grandfather and countless others would not have died in battle. Yet he was the happiest when he would catch a glimpse of the mighty warriors riding through his lands - of their bright banners, and shining mail, and fair faces and voices - and loved it most when they would stop and speak to him, telling him news from faraway lands, or some rumour about the Hidden City.

Húrin stood, deep in his thoughts, until he heard clearly the sound of hooves and rose his head. Minutes later, the High King alighted from his horse. Húrin bowed low before him, and then looked into the eyes of the Elven-lord. Those eyes were bright like the stars, yet held a depth to them, and that depth held sorrow, and joy, and so many other emotions, incomprehensible to the young man before him.

"So we meet again, son of Galdor," said the King, and his voice was both powerful and warm, young and wise, and Húrin just wanted to listen to its beauty until the world's end. All the nervousness disappeared, for such was the power of the King, and Húrin thought now as clearly as ever. And he realized that staring at the King, and listening to his voice, was not the best of ideas. Instead he replied:   
"Indeed, my lord, and well met we are. But shall we go now? I am certain that my people cannot wait to meet their king, and that you must desire to rest after your journey."

The party set out: Húrin and Fingon in the lead, conversing quietly about the beauty of the path and of the woods, and of the freshness of the air, followed by the score of armed Noldor. The least guarded were already speaking merrily to their neighbors, each speaking of what they pleased; the most guarded rode in silence, looking either at the road in front of their horses or into the woods, as if expecting to see some enemy dart out into their way. 

Soon they passed through the hills, and came to the settlement. The people stood out on the streets, greeting the visitors, and the more light-hearted of the Eldar said words of greeting back. Húrin and Fingon together walked up to the raising in the middle of the square. Húrin lifted his hand, and silence fell upon the crowd.

After holding a pause, Húrin exclaimed: “All hail our King Fingon the Valiant!”   
The crowd cheered, and both lords could feel some of the Noldor eyeing those who did so halfheartedly. “That is quite enough, Húrin,” said the King, and together they crossed the Nen Lalaith and came up to the stone walls of Húrin’s house.


	2. Dor-lomin - Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon arrives at Dor-Lomin and settles in... not much more... I am not even certain what exactly will happen, so this was sort of stalling chapter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think… I need your thoughts, they make my day even if it is just to tell me that I suck!

Fingon and Húrin walked through the courtyard. While the two have met several times before, Fingon had never come to Húrin’s lands before - at least not for several centuries, before the lands even belonged to the House of Hador. The Elven-lord had glimpsed at the woods on his way, but decided not to give to the temptation of resting there, of just enjoying the nature for however brief a time. He pushed on, and made his journey from Lake Mithrim to the hill where he met Húrin in one day and a half. During this week here he was planning to not only discuss politics, but also to walk around in the hills, maybe ride his horse, and just enjoy his visit.

He took in his surroundings. After passing the Nen Lalaith, they went through a tall arch in the stone wall and found themselves in the courtyard, the one they were currently in. He could recall rows of houses, and smoke coming from the chimneys, and further away fields - probably with crops, he thought. Really, this settlement seemed to be organized quite well. 

On his right and left Fingon saw rows of wooden houses, and the stone wall behind them. Through the windows, he saw glimpses of several faces, which moved away at their passing. In front of him he saw a stone building, greater than the rest in size and architecture - it rose beyond the wall, and Fingon saw the mighty doors in the sides of the building, from which men could walk to patrol the walls. While the lower levels of the house looked comfortable and inhabited, higher it seemed colder and uninhabited. 

Húrin noticed Fingon staring at the courtyard, and smiled: “I decided that your people could house with mine, if you and they do not mind. I judged that you yourself should be housed with my family, if you have no objections.” The Elf looked at his companion with a smile. “Of course I do not object, and I doubt that my people would. After all, we have been through far worse than anything you could offer us even if you had the mind to make our stay here the most unpleasant.” His smile faded at the latter part of his speech. Both lords stood on the top of the stairs leading to the doors of the great house. 

Fingon turned and looked down at the courtyard. He could now see that the fourth side of the courtyard, the one with the arch, was made of more solid stone than the others. In one of the corners was a well, along with several buckets, and in the other - stables from which he could hear the snorting of horses. The stables seemed rather small, and he guessed that only the horses of Húrin and of his family or messengers were housed there. He then turned to face Húrin, only to look at the sun setting behind him. The clouds around the Ered Lomin were painted various shades of purple, pink, and red. 

He could feel Húrin shift next to him, and heard his voice: “It is so beautiful here. Especially the sunsets.” Then there was a pause, and the voice was no longer quiet, but strong and sure. “Let us go in then, my lord. Dinner should be ready by now, and you must wish to see your lodgings.”  
They passed the great doors, and walked into a long chamber. The ceiling was tall, but not overly so - about twice a man’s height. There were four tables, two against each long wall, and at the end a pedestal on which a great table was set. The chairs there were taller, made of a darker wood, and the tablecloth richer, and the chair in the middle was the tallest, with the engravings of the House of Hador. Several hallways emerged from the sides of the room, one of them obviously from the kitchen according to the smell. Fingon looked at Húrin, who gave him a smile. Then the Man beckoned a servant who had been standing in the corner. He quietly said some instruction, and the servant was off with a bow. 

After several minutes, Húrin’s people and family filed into the room. There was a tall woman with dark hair and eyes which burned with a great light. She curtsied to Fingon, who bowed in return. He looked questioningly at Húrin, who with a smile gestured towards her. “Morwen Eledhwen, my wife. Morwen, this is the High King Fingon.” The woman regarded him for several moments, and then smiled and said: “Welcome, my lord, to our home. I am glad to meet in person one who my husband constantly speaks of.”

Engaging in such small talk, they made their way to the table. Húrin sat in the great chair in the middle, with Fingon on his right and Morwen on his left. The hall was beginning to fill, and the tables were moved towards the center of the room. The Noldor occupied the closer end of the middle one, looking rather out of place - imposing and fair, they were taller than all the Men in the room.

Finally it seemed like everyone was inside. Still Húrin said no word, and it seemed as if they all gathered just to sit in silence. Finally, the doors clanged open again as a man rushed in. Fingon heard Húrin’s chair slide back as he rose to meet the newcomer. At the edge of the pedestal, the two embraced each other. Fingon was rather bewildered by all that was going on until Húrin said loudly: “Welcome, Huor! But you surely took your time, we were thinking of beginning the feast without you!” Fingon was glad that those words were said loudly enough for him to recognise the newcomer, but softly enough for such informal talk not to be heard by the people.

Huor took his place next to Morwen, and the feast could finally begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you thought! Constructive criticism is welcome, as well as just… anything! Next chapter will be featuring the feast and maybe a bit more… I will see how it goes… and sorry for making this chapter so long, at least in comparison to the last one, I just found my stride, and one thing goes after another so I got a little carried away...


	3. The feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast, or what Fingon thinks about his Edain friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, sorry for this being late, I just had Life yesterday… and no computer access… but there is this chapter, tell me what you think!

The great windows were opened, and the great room suddenly became light and cheerful. And then the food began to be carried out from one of the hallways. There were several choices for each course, and while Fingon recalled times when such a meal would be an everyday occurrence, he could tell that now, and especially among these people, was a great feast. 

The high table was served first, from golden plates and silver silverware to great platters laden with the best pieces of meats and the freshest salads. As Fingon watched at the processions, Húrin leaned over to speak to him. “Usually our hospitality would have proven better, and the feast would have been more glorious, yet this year the weather was worse than it has been in a decade, so the harvest proved rather poor, and the meat lean.”

Fingon realised that his expression must have been more than a little glum, and quickly assured Húrin that this was a great feast, and that he expected none at all. After several more shared smiles and quiet words, he returned to observing. 

The men were now served, and waiting looks were being cast at the high table. Fingon looked to his left just in time to see Húrin stand, holding his right hand up, ready to make a speech. A voice went up, and soon the whole room was cheering, waiting for great powerful words from their lord.

“My people!” said Húrin to the crowd. His voice was loud and clear, and the noise immediately disappeared, until the room was silent, except for that powerful voice. “People of all the glorious houses of the Edain: of Hareth, and of Beor, and of my own, of the House of Hador! I welcome you today to a feast in honor of a fourth house, one that is seldom seen in our lands. People of the Edain, welcome our to this humble feast the greatest King in these parts of the world, the King of the Noldor, the son of Fingolfin! Welcome Fingon the Valiant to this house!” Cheering arose again in the room, and Húrin waited a bit before continuing. 

“Our people and his have been in an alliance for long years, and through times of light and of darkness we have passed hand in hand. At today’s feast, we shall honor this alliance. Eat, drink, and be merry, but forget not that this happiness we owe in part to the Eldar, to the Noldor and their leaders in particular.” He held another long pause, his eyes searching through the crowd. Fingon could see his hand edging towards the goblet that stood in front of him on the table. 

“I wish to begin this feast with a toast, as has been done countless times before. Let us drink to the light, and the valour with which our united armies have held the darkness at bay! To light and valour!” And the lord of Dor-Lómin rose the goblet to his lips.

The crowd repeated his cry. “To light and valour!” There was a loud scuffle as everyone reached for their goblets, filled with sweet mead, and the feast began.

For the first several minutes, every person was eating, the only sounds being requests for second helping of this or that food. Then, the hall began filling up with conversation. 

Fingon looked around the table. He ate enough for it to look polite, and indeed the food was rather good. Yet he was interested more in the conversation at the table. At the name of Huor, he has remembered that Húrin had had a brother. He had only met Huor once, at the Bragollach, where he has been fighting alongside his brother. He had met Húrin several times after that, in the woods twice and once in an organized meeting somewhere between Dor-Lómin and Mithrim. While his last meeting with Húrin was only two years ago, he saw Huor when he was a boy, eleven years of age. The eight years that have passed had obviously changed him, and now a young man stood before him.

Fingon gathered that Húrin mostly stayed around the house, running the household, organizing supplies or routines, and finding solutions to problems from all around his year. He went out to hunt twice a month, and several times a year to fight Orcs if he found out that there was a band of them within twenty miles. Otherwise, he usually sent messengers and troops to support those areas of Dor-Lómin that needed the help the most. Huor was the opposite. He spent most of his time away at the borders, fighting Orcs or visiting with the settlements to see if they had any need. When Fingon had met Húrin, Huor was either too far away to come, or was busy, or, one memorable time, lying wounded. 

Fingon could not help but see the difference between the brothers. Húrin, though the elder, was significantly shorter than his brother, who was taller than any other Man that Fingon had ever seen. His face seemed to have traits of the house of Haleth, while Húrin’s held all the traits of the House of Hador. Though they had a similar manner of speech, Húrin spoke more steadily while Huor often raised his voice to emphasize one point or another. 

After the feast, the crowd slowly retreated back to their homes. Several of the people, whom Fingon assumed to live in the house, went into the hallways, while most left through the great doors and headed out into the courtyard and, for the most part, through the next set of doors and into the settlement. Once the room grew empty, Húrin cleared his throat.

“Let me show you to your quarters, my lord. If you wish, we can talk there now, or leave it until tomorrow.”

After saying goodbye to Huor and Morwen, and promising to see them later in the night, Húrin took his guest down the hall and to the last door. “Welcome to your lodgings, my lord! I hope they will suffice for a week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always like to hear from my readers! Your opinions make my day! Coming up next, whenever that will be, is plans for the future, and maybe the beginning of a trip!


	4. Of Plans and the Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon tells Hurin of plans for battle and passes on a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fourth chapter…. where we get into an actual plot… Thanks for the reviews and everything!
> 
> Please feel free to give me any ideas on what to write, I am taking suggestions!

Fingon looked at his surroundings. The ceiling was low, and Fingon felt that if he were an inch taller his head would touch it. He thought about his eldest cousin, and toyed with the thought of the trouble he would face if he would have to walk through here. He smirked at the thought and continued surveying the room.

The walls were plastered, containing a chamber about six strides by four. From the doorway, Fingon could see a wooden door on his right. The room had two windows on opposite to the entrance, which took up half the wall. Under them was a bed, a bit longer than necessary, and the four remaining strides were taken up by a writing desk and comfortable chair. It looked comfortable and welcoming, Fingon felt at home at the first look.

He sat at the bed, gesturing for Húrin to take the chair. The Man explained that the smaller wooden door led to the chamber of Andmor, the servant who would wait upon the Elf-King. He would bring Fingon anything that he would want during his stay at Dor-Lómin. He added that during mealtimes Fingon could eat here alone, if he had the desire, but that he was always welcome to eat with the family.

Fingon listened to all that happily. This was the most that he heard Húrin speak at once - their previous meetings they were either fighting or trading, and Húrin would mostly nod or find other people for the King to talk to. This was the first time that Fingon saw the lord speaking comfortably and describing something in so many words. When Húrin mentioned food, he suddenly thought of the Noldor at his service.

“My men?” he inquired.  
“Housed in the homes of mine. Some of them agreed to share houses for this week, so your people are housed three or four per building.”

Fingon nodded gratefully. They sat in a companionable silence for several minutes, then Húrin stood up and yanked open the heavy curtains on both windows, remarking that if they were planning to just sit and stare they could at least stare outside. This thing, the first hint of humor that Fingon heard from his companion, made Fingon’s lips twitch.They looked at the fields behind the wall, barely seen from the room at its height just above the wall. The moon’s light was soft against the grasses, and Fingon appreciated how beautiful it was. It was rare to see the night skies unclouded in the north.

After admiring the view for several minutes, Fingon decided that it was time to get to business. He cleared his throat, knowing that he would probably ruin the night whatever answer he got to his request.

“Lord Húrin,” he addressed, a little hesitantly. The Man rose his eyes right away to meet his, with a bit of nervousness in his glance. “My lord?”

“You have surely heard of my cousin, Maedhros the Tall,” he began, looking at Húrin’s reaction. The latter nodded. “I have heard that he is a great warrior out in the North-East, and that he is one of the greatest military leaders of the Eldar. That he holds a personal grudge against the Enemy, that he lost his hand in the struggle against the Darkness. I admire him greater than all save you and your father, may his memory remain bright. What about him, lord?”

Fingon felt himself pale at the second part of Húrin’s speech, but regained his composure quickly enough to continue. 

“Indeed he is a great strategist, and an amazing swordsman, even though he has but one hand to wield his weapon. And now he begins to devise new plans, new strategies, for a final battle. A battle of all Elves, Men, and Dwarves that he can gather against Morgoth. He told me as much when I last saw him, he had the idea for a while now.

He is attempting to gather everyone who hates the Enemy, anyone who will fight against him. I expect that you shall join me, shall you not? Your men are the most valiant of all Men I have yet met, and your contribution should win us victory!”

Fingon observed Húrin’s eyes light up during his speech, until they were burning with a bright fire. “A great battle? With all the warriors that our side can gather?”

“Yes, yes indeed, Húrin,”said Fingon. He could tell without asking directly that Húrin would join him, that he would fight until the last drop of blood against his Enemy.

“This battle shall be great indeed, son of Galdor. We shall face either a great victory, with all the evil wiped out of this world, or a great defeat, where we would have no hope to gather enough strength for another battle. One side shall lose, and lose utterly. We need all the men we can gather to ensure that it is our side that wins.

My cousin therefore told me to give you this letter. He said that I shall not try to sway you to say yay or nay but that you should read it and decide on your own.”

With these last words Fingon reached somewhere into the folds of his cloak, and took out a letter. It was written on clean parchment, slightly crumpled after the journey, and sealed with a piece of wax, with the sign of the Sons of Fëanor on it. Written in a tidy handwriting with a very unusual slant was written the following:

“To be delivered to Húrin Thalion Lord of Dor-Lómin in person”*

Húrin looked at Fingon in surprise as he accepted the letter with a shaking hand. He realised its importance since it was written by Maedhros in person, the left-handed slant proof of it.Torn between desire to read the letter and desire to speak to the King, he asked Fingon whether he would like to go to sleep. Receiving a positive answer, he smiled, glad that his choice was made for him.

“Good night then, my lord,” he said, and, with a small bow, left the room, retreating to his own chambers and already fumbling at the intriguing letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * the address, as parts of the letter itself, are taken from the letter of Gil-Galad to King Meneldur from the story of Aldarion and Erendis in the Unfinished Tales  
> Those reviews that I got were great! Please tell me if my letter shall sound horribly awkward or out of place, or if anything else seems out of place, I would be glad to fix anything!


	5. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurin reads the letter and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading up to here! I am honored! Please tell me of any awkwardness, out-of-characterness, or canonical mistakes.

Húrin fumbled with the letter in the dark hallway, then gave up on it. He rushed to his office, the room in which he would calculate the stores of provisions and materials and the numbers of the troops under his command. He sat at his desk, lit the candle that stood before him, and carefully broke the seal.  
In the envelope was a large piece of parchment, neatly folded. Húrin stroked it with the tips of his fingers, and could tell that it was of the finest quality. He carefully unfolded it to see a dozen or so lines written in the same meticulous handwriting with the peculiar slant.   
“Important indeed it must be if the Lord of the Marches of the East wrote it in person,” Húrin mused out loud, and then addressed his attention to the following words:

“Maedhros the Tall son of Fëanor to Húrin Thalion of the House of Hador, greeting: the Valar keep you and may no shadow fall upon the Lands of Dor-Lómin. For long years have I owed you thanks for the many times that the troops of you and your fathers have come to the aid of the Eldar. Great was our need for that aid for the long decades that have passed, yet greater it becomes today. The Shadow in the North grows, and war draws near.  
Since the Dagor Bragollach*, well nigh all of Beleriand has been ravaged by the attacks of the Orcs. The strength of the Enemy grows with each day, and this battle shall be different than all that have yet been. For this battle shall be greater than all those that the Eldar and the Edain have known. One side shall fall utterly, without any hope of arising from the ashes of its fall, while the other shall flourish until the world’s end. It is of great importance that ours is the latter and not the first.   
It is my plan to gather all the people of Middle-earth that would come to my aid, and to the aid of King Fingon. It is not one region that shall suffer if we defeat, but the whole continent. Therefore I ask, nay, beg of you to come to a council that shall be held at the Hill of Himring on the first day of Hrivë**. The time for travelling is not the most comfortable, yet I shall send two scores of my soldiers for the escort of the King, and you may come with it. Time runs low, and we cannot afford to wait until more forgiving weather.  
I beg the Lord of Dor-Lómin to consider my request at the least, and to come with Fingon if so is decided. The Darkness hates us greatly, but it hates you no less. It shall stop at nothing to destroy or dominate all beings in Middle-Earth. Manwë keep you and your people under the One, and give you the best of fortune.”

Húrin looked down at the letter, then read it over again. The news from the Elves must have been true then, and he realised that he had no choice but to fight. Or at least to go to the counsel. He decided to leave the matter until the next day. He folded it carefully and slid it into the envelope. Then Húrin stored it in the lowest drawer and locked it. After checking that it was locked securely, he took the candle with him, lighting his way to the bedroom of his brother. He wished a good night to Huor and stepped into his own bedroom, right next to it.

He looked at the form of Morwen, already lying in their bed. He undressed and joined her. “Good night, Eledhwen,” he said softly. “Tomorrow shall be a long day.”

 

Meanwhile Fingon settled in his own bed. The covers were warm, and the pillows soft. It took him only minutes to fall asleep. In that brief time of wakefulness he thought of how Húrin should react to the letter. He could not possibly deny the plea of Maedhros, though, could he?   
And Fingon went to sleep assured that all was well, at least for the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I took this address and some parts of the letter from the letter of Gil-Galad to King Meneldur. This letter can be found in the story of Aldarion and Erendis from the Unfinished Tales.  
> **I took the Elvish season Hrive, winter, from online, so please correct me if I am wrong!


	6. A Morning with Strategics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strategics are discussed between the two lords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a military genius, please correct me if any mistakes are made that are too serious. I appreciate any reviews or advice for my writing, I would not force you to read something too terrible!

It was a surprisingly pleasant morning. Húrin looked out the window when he woke up, and saw a soft breeze blowing at the grasses outside the wall, and the sky lighting up as the sun rose in the East, unseen from his window. He lay in bed for half a minute, the time he allowed himself every day to recall his duties for the day.

All of yesterday rushed to him, and he recalled the King, the feast, and the letter. The letter! He stood up and dressed quickly, and then rushed to his office, undoing the lock with clumsy fingers. He sighed in relief when seeing the letter then. He had no idea why, but he thought that it would disappear. He decided that he would write a reply. His hand made it halfway to the stack of parchment when he jerked it back. He should speak to Fingon of the details first. The meeting was to be held in the winter, after all. He still would have several weeks until the appointed time, and he would have to make plans on how he would meet with Fingon, how they would travel. That they would meet and travel Húrin was sure of already. 

He went back to his and Morwen’s room, calling for Mirdon, his lieutenant, to relieve the guards from their night shift and to replace them with the next group. He woke his wife with a light kiss, and then his brother with several loud words, including “breakfast”, which definitely played its part. Then he walked to the door of the King. He trembled for a moment, then pushed it open.

Against his expectations, Fingon was awake already. He sat at his desk, a piece of parchment with several tidy lines already penned on it. “Good morning, Húrin,” he said softly. 

“Same to you, my king. I trust you had a good night?” Húrin replied by all the requirements of decorum. However, he noted that Fingon seemed pleased with his visit so far, and put more warmth into his voice than he had ever done for this phrase.

“Yes indeed, Húrin. I found my lodgings quite comfortable, and the night peaceful. Is it always so quiet here?” 

“Yes, aside from an occasional Orc raid. It happens no more than five times a year at this settlement though.”

Húrin was beginning to have a hard time controlling himself. Talks about war and strategies always got him inspired and made stopping hard. And the power of the Elf-king seemed the opposite of what he felt yesterday. Instead of feeling relaxed, he felt nervous, as if saying something awkwardly would ruin Fingon’s view of him. He treasured that view. He decided to do no more than answer the questions of the king, and refrain from saying more than necessary.

“So even now we are at risk of attack? What precautions did you take?”  
“I have guards positioned outside the settlement and this house at all times. They stand six-hour shifts. If the raid is small, they destroy the Orcs. That is the case most of the time. It has happened thrice that the attacks were greater. Then they alert the people and we all gather into the courtyard. For the first two attacks, we had archers and swordsmen enough to destroy the attackers in several days. Here we can house every person and a portion of the beasts, and we have enough provisions for a week.”

“What would happen if a week would not be sufficient to ward off the attack, if you end up besieged?”

“Ah, my lord, a small group from the guard is sent as messengers to the nearest settlements. From there reinforcements can reach us in a couple of days. All of our larger settlements go by this system. A week is more than sufficient, much worse is the damage done to our fields after the Orcs pass through them. It happened only one time since this system was established, the last attack. The Lord Maedhros is right in this, the Darkness grows. I fear that another major attack we may hold off only with great loss.”

Húrin looked at his lord, hoping that he had not said anything wrong. He would take any measures so as not to dishonor himself in the eyes of his King. But Fingon’s face remained rather pleased, and he smiled. “You have changed, son of Galdor, since I saw you last. You have grown well-suited to the burden of kingship that was thrust upon you during such early youth. I am glad to see that Dor-Lómin is under the rule of such a man, and that your forces have remained strong and loyal.”

During this conversation, the two lords passed out of the chamber and onto the stairs that led into the courtyard. Fingon looked at this land, seemingly so peaceful, and thought of how strange it was that something that seemed to be calmness itself could be ravaged with Orcish raids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, my posting should become rather less frequent from now on, as school begins and my free time shall be limited. I assure you that I do not quit the story, the updates will just be less frequent.


	7. Of Hard Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurin decides to leave for the council, and a hunting trip is suggested.

The breakfast was rather more quiet than the feast the night before. Only Huor, Húrin, Morwen, and Fingon were present at the table, with several servants or other men of the household serving at the table or sitting in the far end of the room, far enough to hear a call but not close enough to overhear anything that they were not meant to.

After breakfast, Húrin requested a moment to speak with the lords and lady. The food was cleared away, and he took out of his pocket the letter from Maedhros. Laying it on the table and carefully unfolding it, he cleared his throat.

“Lord Fingon upon his arrival brought me a letter. I believe that all of you are aware that the Darkness is growing, especially you, my king. Lord Maedhros, the greatest strategist of our days, has long been coming up with plans to defeat the Dark Lord. He shall need men for success. And he shall get them, from Dor-Lómin at the very least.”

He saw the relieved expression of Fingon, who must have begun to have doubts concerning his loyalty after all, and the realization on the faces of his family. He waited for several seconds, then continued. 

“Maedhros is trying to make his plans. Lords from all over Beleriand, ambassadors from Elves, Men, and Dwarves, shall gather at Himring in a few weeks.”

He studied their faces once more. He knew that Morwen would take some convincing, that she would fear for him. But he could only guess the reactions of the other two. Taking a deep breath, he continued: “I shall go to represent our lands. If there shall be no objections, Morwen shall remain here, for someone has to remain from my family. Huor, however, may choose to stay or to go with me. We leave in a week, Lord Fingon and I. We shall be escorted by the Noldor that came with the King, and then head to Himring. By spring I should return.”

“No!” was Morwen’s immediate reply. “The Darkness is growing, and travelling is dangerous! What shall we do without you, how shall we manage? Already the harvest grows poorer with each year, and the attacks destroy our settlements and farms. We cannot lose our leader in such a time!”

To Húrin’s surprise, it was Fingon who answered - calmly and quietly, yet his voice was convincing, and Morwen nodded in understanding after his words, either understanding or finding argument useless. 

“Then do you not wish to join the war? Do you wish to sit here in Dor-Lómin and enjoy the victory won by the allies that you abandoned? Or to be taken as thralls if we are defeated, mourning that your leader chose not to act when he still could? Nay, my lady, it is now or never. With each passing year the forces of the enemy grow. It may turn out that Hithlum is besieged, or that the roads to Himring are blocked. Then you would have no choice but stay within your walls. Would you have that, lady Eledhwen?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, which ended in Huor saying that he would think about it. That was taken as a provocation for the rest of the group to speak. Morwen alone kept her silence, upset by the decision, while Húrin and Fingon assured Huor that an immediate decision was not at all necessary. 

“I still have five days to spend here. Perhaps a hunting trip would serve well for us to clear our minds and to take a break before we have to go back to war,” Fingon said before standing up.

“It shall be arranged to your liking, my lord,” said Húrin with a bow, before likewise standing and retreating to his office, calling up several servants to plan the desired hunting trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same notes as always apply.


	8. Plans for the Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made for the trip which was planned to make up the three of the most exciting days of Hurin's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry to say that I had to provide the measurements in miles. All the maps I found had mile measurements and I was just not up to converting it to any Middle-earth unit. Besides, this way it is easier to read for those who do not know the measurements used in Tolkien’s world.

It has taken four hours of work to plan and to calculate, but several hours after midday, Húrin was done with the planning. He had looked over maps, laying out a route that would not be too tiring but that would offer enough game - he asked his brother on advice in that area - and that would run not too close to any settlements, so as not to disturb them, nor too far, in the case of an attack, as unlikely as it would be. Then he searched for an appropriate amount of people to take as an escort, and walked around the settlement, finding five Noldor and seven Men who were willing and eager to come and could be spared from their duties for three days.

Húrin decided to tell Fingon about his plans in the baths - after all, it would be good to relax in the warm water before a three-day trip. Together with Huor, they headed down to their destination.

“The baths are located beneath ground level, it is warmer down there,” explained Húrin as he led the way. “Originally there was separation between men and women, but then…” He became quiet, then continued his thought.

“After the last big raid, we were forced to remove the women’s baths, and to make the area into a storage place. That attack left us a lot weaker, and most people now prefer to bathe at home. It seems as if everywhere where there was joy is getting demolished by this war. I hope that the great battle shall happen soon, and that evil shall be vanquished from these lands, even if for a little while.”

In the baths, Húrin told his brother and his lord the plans for the trip. It was determined that they shall set out tomorrow for a three-day hunting trip.They were to travel ten or so miles to the east and ride through the mountains for the first day, stopping for the night by a small lake. The second day they would travel northwest as far as they would please, probably fifteen miles or so since the mountains gave way to woods. They would camp in the woods, and then ride back home through the plains. 

The first and third days offered only enough game for the party to get by; the woods of the second were expected to provide enough game to take back home. Therefore no food was packed, but only supplies: bows and arrows and spears for the hunt, swords, which have become a necessity in everyday life as means of protection, supplies for making camp, and tools for preparing and transporting the slain beasts back to Dor-Lómin.

 

When it was time to go to bed, Húrin headed for his office instead. After an hour or so of planning and writing instructions for Maldur, who he was leaving as regent along with Morwen, he finally went to bed, falling asleep with a certainty that the next three days would be some of the best in his life.

 

Huor however had not the certainty of his brother. He lay awake in bed, hearing his brother go to his office, then exit it and return to his room. He could not help but be troubled by some foreboding, a feeling that something would go off. He trusted his brother, yet Húrin had so little experience in the woods! They had both looked over the plans several times, and they seemed secure. Logically, the chance of attack was small, and the chances that the attack would be successful were nearly nonexistent.

Yet he could not help but feel that something was wrong, that the trip would not be a success. It was a feeling too similar to the one he felt before the attack that had forced them to back into Serech. Yet if he had any reason for this feeling this time, what were the chances that Ulmo should protect them, and that the Eagles would save them from certain death? 

Finally he fell into a restless sleep, yet when his brother cheerfully woke him the next day the sense of foreboding only grew stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I did not have the chance to write a longer one today. Reviews and suggestions are always welcome!


	9. The Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we find out why Huor has been having suspicions about this whole hunting idea.

When the Sun rose from the Ered Wethrin, it saw a company of fifteen Men and Elves, horsed and armed, standing at the gates of the settlement. It saw a woman with black hair walk up to the lord in the front, and reach up to him for a kiss and several words. Then the woman walked back to the great gates that were opened for her, and a large stood behind the hunters. Two of the three leaders spoke to the crowd for a little while, then the party set off, crossed the bridge over the Nen Lalaith, and disappeared beyond the mountains in the east.

Huor remained quiet and calm through these proceedings, his nervousness betrayed only by his uncommon silence. He was too busy observing to speak even to his people - besides, his brother was better at that than he was.

He soon realised that neither his companions nor Morwen, seemed to his fears and suspicions. Morwen was too worried over Húrin’s plan to leave for the winter to worry over a three-day hunting trip; Húrin had his eyes on Fingon, excited by everything that he would do; Fingon was praising various elements of the settlement and its structure; the Men and Elves who were to accompany the lords were quietly talking and laughing amongst themselves. 

So he laid his fears aside and attempted to enjoy the day, the cool air of the mountains, and the presence of his brother and the Elven-king, whom he saw so rarely of late. His peace was interrupted by unrest every few moments. However, he managed to keep it to himself, and to appear calm at the very least. At least, that was the case until the party reached the lake.

On their way, Huor noticed that the woods were peculiarly quiet. His companions did not notice, but they were not here as often as he was. They must have thought that it is how it always was. But he could be mistaken, after all. 

There were a bit less animals than usual, but Huor, for his calmness, assigned it to the Orc raids. Perhaps the animals have been migrating to safer places. Perhaps many have died. Perhaps they were just more careful and harder to see. Anyways, the party caught three rabbits and four ducks and called it a day.

The lake aroused Huor’s suspicions to the greatest level he had experienced about this event. He could feel his breathing get faster before he controlled it with a great effort of will. It was too quiet, and there just seemed something wrong in the air that he could feel with every fibre of his body. He forced himself to be logical, to find out exactly what was going on. He looked around carefully, and saw a movement behind the trees.

He looked back to the men who were setting up camp and lighting fires, as it grew dark. Then his eyes darted back to the forests, and saw a similar movement again. He stepped closer to the fire, lowering his hand to one of the branches. When he saw the movement the third time, he grabbed the branch and lunged forward with a shout. The men looked at him in surprise, and then too reached for their weapons.

For a shape mirrored Huor’s movements, and an Orc lunged out of the trees, in heavy armor and with drawn weapons, followed by countless others from different parts of the forest. The fifteen men were surrounded with the Orcs on one side and the lake on the other. Huor heard his brother’s shout, one that sounded in his nightmares from the days of the great war:

“Protect the King! Protect our King, folk of the Eldar and of the Edain!”

He stepped back, joining the circle of the warriors. Placing the branch in his left hand, he drew his sword with the right. As their enemies approached, he tried to calculate the number of Orcs. Ten… twenty… fifteen paces left…. twenty-five…. and then he battle began, and he lost count. 

For the first several minutes, or hours, or days, he knew not how long, the sword was dancing in his hand, he moved through the Orcs, slashing and slicing and blocking their clumsy blows. Only after that the adrenaline pounding in his veins began to fade, and he became more aware of his surroundings.

Apparently, most of the others have fought the same way, with the same ferocity, and in the few seconds that Huor could spare he saw his companions had all become separate, each engaged in combat with one or two of the Orcs, about fifteen of which lay dead already. Then he turned to the three before him.

Block their two swords, a kick to the shin of one and a twist to avoid the sword of another, coming to meet the blade of the third. Slide, and thrust, and shove the branch into the ugly face before him - one down. Thrust, parry, step aside, twist and parry again, it all blended into a pattern of confusion as he felt something heavy hit his head. A club of some sort, he realised, as he turned to his new enemy, shaking a bit and slightly dizzy. Thrust, step aside, parry, twist. Slice, kick, hit with the alit branch. His movements grew methodic. Two down, two left. He could not recall when the other one came. Did the Orcs have reinforcements?

He found himself retreating, joining a group of other warriors, perhaps ten or eleven of them. He could see the silhouettes of the rest dancing in their fights, retreating towards their group. He skimmed the crowd, finding the King fighting alongside his brother. He could see that Fingon’s arm was bleeding lightly, and that Húrin winced at each movement. He could see a red stain at the side of his tunic, even in the darkness. 

“They are getting reinforcements, several dozens at least!” he heard one of the warriors, the voice seemed to belong to a Man, shout. He knew that they would not beat them, could not beat them. There were too many of them. He swayed on his feet. Concentrate. Parry, twist, step aside to keep balance. Why is it so hard all of a sudden? Slide and thrust, pull back. Then he was pushed aside. His vision was darkening at the edges, and he heard his sword clatter as it met the ground. He saw the Orcish blade heading for his heart and stood tall. He would meet death like a son of Galdor.

And then the sword retreated as the Orc drew back in fear. For from somewhere on his right came a sound, which seemed more beautiful than anything else in the world, the sound of a horn being blown. His strength then left him, and he fell to the ground, unconscious before he hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first time writing a battle scene, please tell me if it was too terrible. Coming next is who was the mysterious saviour, and what they were doing by the lake.  
> Please tell me anything you noticed that was good or bad, I would love to hear from my readers. I don’t like talking to myself that much, so someone to reply to my so-called stories would always be welcome!


	10. Upon Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huor wakes up and finds out that he has no idea what is going on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please notice that this is my first time talking about injuries and treatments and stuff. Pretty much my first attempt on anything but the other fanfiction on this site and school assignments which were obviously a different type of writing than this. Feedback is always appreciated, on any chapter. I would love to hear how I can improve my writing, I am pretty new here!

When Huor came to his senses, the first thing that he realised was that his head hurt. It was not like the headaches that he pretended to have when too lazy to go to class as a child, nor the headaches that his brother had after a night of sitting up devising plans. It was worse even than that pain that he felt after having a bit too much to drink at a feast or especially merry dinner.

He felt a pounding in his head, and a heat that seemed to be coming from a fever. His thoughts were slow and laborious, and he found himself unable to finish the simplest of conscious thoughts. He slowly started to feel around the rest of his body. There was pain besides that in his head, though definitely less strong by far. As if there were myriads of cuts and bruises over his entire body, and a cracked rib. Besides, a ringing in his ears which he found rather annoying.

Huor sighed. Apparently he would have to think after all, to figure out where in Arda he was.   
“It feels too earthly to be beyond the Circles of the World, as how would I get there without a body?” he managed to reason after what seemed like an Age of half-finished attempts. As he tried to take the next step and find out anything besides where he happened not to be, he found his thoughts growing even more sluggish and slow. He felt a dizziness that overpowered his mind, and soon faded back into unconsciousness. 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

He woke again a while later, though he had no idea how long it was. This time the headache was not as bad as the previous time, and the dizziness seemed to be less severe. The ringing was no longer as loud, but all of that was now accompanied with a sense of nausea, and he felt that before vomiting all over the soft bed (he had determined that that was what he was currently laying on) he should at least attempt to find out to evaluate who would have to do the cleaning.

As he strained his memory as far as he dared, the events of the previous days, or whenever it had been, slowly made their way back into his mind. There was a hunting trip, and then they came at a great lake. And then there was a battle, Orcs appearing from the darkness and the lights from the torches, and the fighting. Step forward, thrust, twist and step back, slide, parry, step forward, lunge. He remembered it all too clearly, but what else? What else? Something was clearly missing, what was it?

“Húrin!” he suddenly remembered. Where was he, where was his brother? He needed to see him, needed to know that he was safe, or at the very least alive! Now the images were all too clear: Húrin’s cry to defend the king, and his fight. Huor shuddered at the memory of his brother standing tall, shielding Fingon, remembering the red staining his tunic, the bloodstained hand that he held to his side as a wound to his sword-arm left him wielding his weapon left-handed. Did he survive the ambush? Was he alive?

Huor felt a panic overtaking him. Where was Húrin, he needed to see him, for Eru’s sake! His brother has always been there, always someone he admired, even when their opinions and views of the world began to sunder. Húrin would always help his brother, he would give his life for Huor, and the younger brother realized that most likely it was what happened.

“Someone!” he shouted. Or at least attempted to shout. His throat was parched, and only a quiet rasp came out of his throat. Was he alone? “Anyone, help! Húrin, Húrin!”

He heard footsteps, and what seemed like an eternity later saw a face, lined with concern, looking down at him. “Lord, what is it? Are you in pain? What can I do?”

With a Herculean effort*, he rasped once more. “Húrin, where is he, how is he? Does he live?”

The face looking down on him relaxed. “He lives, lord. And the lord Fingon does also. They are in a separate chamber, being cared after by our best healers.”

“May I see him? Please?”

Her face was concerned again. “I regret to say that it is out of question. You cannot yet walk, and you have a cracked rib that needs to heal before. I can go and ask his healers for the details of his condition, if that is what you wish. But I cannot do aught else.”

“Yes, do that. Please do that!” he breathed out. He felt the weariness setting down on his mind again, and the darkness on the edges of his vision.

The last thing he realised after her footsteps faded away was that he had no idea whether Húrin had any chances to survive this ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: do not kill me, this is my first try and I warned you. Any suggestions are always welcome, and keep in mind that I am a beginner at this whole fanfiction thing.   
> * Herculean effort is the modern day phrase, I am aware that it is not something that Huor would actually have thought as Greek mythology did not exist in the First Age in Beleriand. If you have any alternatives feel free to suggest them!


	11. Where is my brother?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle from Hurin's perspective. Sorry, but I do not seem to be able to move off this topic. The only thing that comes to mind! Please enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is turning out a lot longer than I expected it to be. Oh well, I guess you are stuck with me and this story for a bit longer. Please read and review!

The battle seemed to last forever, and the only thing that Húrin could think about was Fingon, and about how horrible this day, which should have been leisurely and great, has become. He cast orcs aside, killing them by the dozen, attempting to shield his lord, though plenty still assailed Fingon until the fight was no longer a protector and a lord but two brothers-in-arms, fighting off the assailants together side by side. 

Húrin remembered his arms growing heavy, each move becoming harder to make. As three assailants rushed at him from the side not covered by Fingon, he managed to block only two of their swords. The third weapon hit him in the side, going deep into the flesh. He intuitively struck at the assailant, and felt the metal pull out of his flesh. He swayed on his feet, leaning on Fingon’s left arm. He could feel the Elf’s concerned gaze as Húrin fell on his knees, lifting his sword again. His whole body was shaking with fine tremors, he could barely raise his sword arm. He knew that it was the end, that he shall die. 

“At least it shall be side by side with my king, with a lord of the Eldar,” he thought, raising his sword once more.

And then he saw it. A light far in the distance. The Orcs suddenly drew back, rushing towards the new assailants, and Húrin heard the sounds of distant battle. He could hear Fingon stop fighting and drop to his knees, supporting him.

“They are gone for none. Húrin, can you hear me? Answer me!” Fingon’s voice was concerned, and held a power in it that made Húrin open his eyes. He felt blood in his mouth as he grabbed his lord’s hand, and said: “Yes, my lord. Not for long, I fear.” Or at least attempted to say. He was not certain that Fingon could understand anything in his suddenly rasping voice.

“Hush,” said the Elf-lord. “Since when do we speak so familiarly?” thought Húrin. “A better end than a cold farewell done for sheer formality.”

The sounds of battle were fading, being replaced by a loud ring in Húrin’s ears, and a rush similar to the sound of water flowing. He remembered how he and Huor had taken a boat and ridden down a river in his youth, the name of which he could not recall. Huor! Where was he? How was he faring?

The warrior in Húrin realised that it all was pointless, that he would just have a more painful end, but the brother in him longed to help Huor. He let the brother win that battle of wills. With an amount of effort that he had never summoned before, he forced the darkness out of the edges of his vision, and attempted to rise to his feet. “Húrin, what are you doing? Stay still! Húrin, can you hear me? Húrin?” He heard the voice of Fingon as the darkness flowed back, almost overwhelming him. His trembling muscles relaxed and he fell back against the chest of Fingon.

He did not know how much time passed like that. He would battle with the unconsciousness threatening to overwhelm him, occasionally losing and succumbing to it for he knew not how long. He would wake disoriented, and strain against the arms of Fingon which supported him and kept him in place, until he would give up and lay back down, again fighting for awareness.

Then he heard a voice, one that sounded familiar, but only vaguely: “Who is this? Who passes upon these lands?”

Húrin thought of answering, but, remembering his weakness, kept silent. He could only hope that Fingon would answer wisely.

“This is your lord Húrin, wounded sorely in this battle. I am Fingon, the High King of the Noldor, come to take counsel with the Lord of Dor-Lómin.”

“My lords,” said the unknown man, sounding as if he did not expect such an answer. Húrin suspected that he bowed, though he could not see. 

“May I have the honor of knowing your identity, savior?” asked Fingon, as discreetly as he could.

“Yes indeed, my lord. I come from a settlement not far west from here. My lord Bregil, the master of this settlement, sends out a score of scouts daily to survey the area. We were on patrol around here when we heard the sounds of fighting. We came to your aid, and, as it seems, we were none too late. How many men did you have?”

“Seven of your race and five of mine, as well as me, Húrin, and Huor his brother,” replied Fingon. Húrin suspected that the Elven-king was finding his stride and speaking more easily.

“We have found six standing yet, close together. We shall search the battlefield for the rest,” replied the lord. Sensing that he was about to leave, Húrin made the last effort. “Hu..or,” he rasped, tightening his grip on Fingon’s hand, begging the Powers that he would be hurt.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, when Húrin’s consciousness was once again escaping him, he heard, as if somewhere of, Fingon’s voice.

“Inform me of the news of Huor his brother as soon as you recognize him…”

Húrin did not hear the end of his speech. With the knowledge that all would be done for his brother, he finally let go of the last threads of consciousness and faded into the blissful darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: pretty similar to the previous chapter, though previously in time… I just write off the top of my head, things like that are bound to happen sometimes. Next chapter shall be from Fingon’s perspective, like this one was of Huor’s. Any notes on the context or suggestions for the further outcome of this story, or of any other, are welcome!   
> Have a good day!


	12. Do not die!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle again, from Fingon's point of view.  
> I shall move on next chapter... I would promise if I would not have known Feanor!XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: no idea what happened here… anyways, I love to hear from you!

Fingon stood in the middle of the battle. He could see Huor battling for his life in the distance, several of his Noldor rallying to him. It would have been interesting, if Fingon could afford to be interested, that some of his best warriors took a young boy, one of the Atani, as their leader. He was fighting admirably, better by far than anything Fingon had expected. 

His extra moment of observation was rebuked the next moment, as Húrin shouted out a warning and Fingon’s attention turned back to the battle. Fingon turned rather clumsily, barely catching his balance. He felt an Orcish blade slice into his forearm, drawing blood. His adrenaline seemed to double at that wound, and he fought thereafter with more ferocity.

His fervor was quenched when Húrin shouted out again, but this time his shout contained more pain than warning. Fingon faced him, and saw that his friend had fallen to his knees. His right hand was pressing down on a wound at his left side, the sword lying at the ground by his feet. Looking down in horror, Fingon took action.

He was often forced to make hard decisions, he could not recall the number of times. He would try to take his time when making his choice, but it was in his nature to just rush and do what he felt was right. After making his decision he always acted swiftly, with no hesitation, refusing to see a way back even if there was one. 

Now he gripped his sword tighter, reaching to block a strike that would have killed Húrin, when the Orc drew back. Fingon himself also froze in place, for he could hear a sound that brought hope, a sound that he thought he would never hear - the sound of a horn being blown.

The centuries of experience allowed Fingon to recognize many horns. There were the throaty ugly sounds of the Orcish horns, often different but still ugly to his ear. There were the ones that could not produce a single stable note, the crude horns of unlearned Men. He loved most those of his kin, fair and bright, which could be heard from afar in forests, plains, and mountains alike. 

This horn sounded vaguely familiar, yet not quite corresponding to any of Fingon’s memories. Looking around, Fingon saw that the Orcs had scrambled away, either into the woods or to meet the new assailants. He looked back at Húrin, and realised that he could not afford to think about anything else at the moment - he could find out who their saviours were, but first he would have to do something, anything, to help his friend.

Friend? Since when did he refer to this mortal as a friend? No matter, he told himself. 

He fell to his knees besides Húrin, supporting the Man as he fell into his arms. He was worried like he had not been for many years. He remembered the two times when he had held someone like this, staunching a wound, begging them to live. 

He could not stop the images from flooding into his mind, and clutching Húrin closer to his chest he closed his eyes. They were so hard to bear!

The pale face of Arakáno framed with black hair, bleeding from several sword and arrow wounds in his chest and stomach. He had held his brother, murmuring to him, not fully recognising the disaster that had fallen upon him. 

His father had run up to him, pushing him aside gently, speaking to his son for the last time, tears rushing down his face. Fingon stared for several minutes as his brother’s breaths became more laboured, as he coughed up blood, as he suddenly went limp. After several more seconds Fingolfin lifted his tearstained face and whispered. “He is gone.”

He could not let Húrin die in the same way, he could not lose another friend, another brother who looked up to him with endless respect and admiration. “You shall live, son of Galdor,” he whispered into the night.

Fingon set there for an endless time, remembering the times in Valinor that had gone by too quickly: the laughter of his brothers and cousins, the joyful games, their lives free of fear and worry. He felt a tear slip out of the corner of his eye, and forced his body under control. It was none too late, for a few seconds later he heard footsteps approaching, and a man, a mortal, coming up to him. His hair was dark, his face covered with dirt and blood. 

“Who is this? Who passes upon these lands?” asked the stranger, looking at the men with suspicion and the smallest amount of fear. Hearing the answer, the stranger bowed low, then took off his helm. He was quite handsome for a Man. Fingon noticed that no small amount of respect and relief was now in the voice of the stranger. He found himself becoming less guarded as the conversation continued. 

After Húrin spoke, Fingon could feel that he would not wake soon. The commander called up several men and conversed in a tongue that Fingon did not recognize*. “They shall take care of it,” promised the man. “What else shall you command?”

“We need means of transport. How many horses can you lend us to get to your village? We had sixteen**, but during the attack they fled, at least one was killed.”

“I shall send five men to search for them. We shall share the score that I have brought.”

After a messenger was sent to the settlement to warn of the arrival of the lords and send a party to dispose of the dead, Fingon felt worn out. He forced himself to face the losses that this hunting trip, his idea, had brought amongst his allies: three Men of Dor-Lómin and two from the settlement were dead, as were two of the Noldor. The rest of the hunting party bore wounds, some light like Fingon’s and some heavy like Húrin’s. About half of the scouts were wounded too.

In total, from the thirty-five warriors, seven dead, six nearly so, twelve bearing light or moderate wounds, and the rest unharmed.

Fingon could not help but wonder how many more battles he should lose, how many more deaths cause for his own allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading, please review!  
> *assuming that some of the Men spoke their own languages and not Elvish  
> **one for each of the riders and one to carry the baggage


	13. Messengers and Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Morwen was up to at the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Short one this time, sadly my sister needs the computer for homework! (Accursed procrastinator, stupid of her! I did the same assignment over the weekend!) Don’t forget to review if you have anything to tell me, whether about this story or something completely off topic!

The day after the hunting party, Morwen was sitting in the main room, receiving people from a nearby settlement. They requested provisions until the end of winter, saying that their crop fields were destroyed by Orcs and suggesting how much and of what to send. Morwen looked at him, keeping her face void of emotion and jotting down the numbers as she had seen her husband do. 

These news saddened her. She knew that she had no chance of convincing Húrin to stay anyways, and the knowledge that her people were suffering made that knowledge seem more bitter. She shook her head, trying to focus on the words of the messenger. How did her husband manage to do this for entire days, it was so boring!? Perhaps the difference was that he actually made decisions and she just passed on the information to him.

The messenger finished and she invited him to stay for dinner, which was to be served in an hour, in words as gracious as she could make them. The messenger agreed, and inquired after the Lord Húrin. Just as Morwen was opening her mouth to speak, the doors clanged open. Sador the Lame rushed in, and shouted from the threshold: “My lady, a messenger from Romenost*! He is accompanied by ten of men, and they seem to have ridden hard and fast to bring you a message!”

“Thank you, Sador,” replied Morwen, rather calmly. She stood from the tall chair that she had occupied and drew herself to her full height. This was not good. When messages were urgent, it was rarely pleasant news. She looked at the messengers, trying to keep her face blank of all feelings, especially of the one that dominated her and made her heart beat rather rapidly in her chest - the despicable feeling of fear. 

The messenger rushed in, flanked by three other men, and fell upon one knee. With his right hand, he drew a letter from the folds of his cloak and held it out to Morwen. She took in his appearance in a matter of seconds - he was young, perhaps the age of Huor, and his hair was dark. From the house of Bëor, she decided. His whole body was shaking a little from exhaustion. She accepted the letter, feeling a tremor go through her own body as she saw the familiar seal.

“Stand,” she commanded. “For how long have you ridden?”

“Five hours, my lady,” was the reply, delivered in the manner of a warrior - devoid of all emotion, stating the facts, not attempting to gain praise or reward.

“I shall have quarters prepared for you, and you may leave tomorrow morning.”

She called to Sador, telling him to pass the message to the other servants to prepare three rooms downstairs. Aside from the baths and the storage, there were wide rooms, with only the barest necessities. Those were to be used in case of an attack, but more often when unexpected messengers of lesser rank would come and there was a sudden demand on housing. 

“Thank you, my lady,” was the reply. The messenger turned and gave a call to his men, then went to wait outside. The men already fed and cleaned the horses and now were leaning on walls in exhaustion.

Morwen, meanwhile, went to her quarters. She laid the letter on the table, took a deep breath, and broke the red seal. The seal of King Fingon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So please tell me what you thought! 
> 
> *Romenost. As far as I know, this would mean East-fortress in one of the Elvish languages. This city is entirely from my imagination, and located in the east of Dor-Lómin. As my knowledge of Tolkien’s language is rather weak (as of today), feel free to correct me on this or any other names that I use!


	14. Not Hurin!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morwen finds out about Hurin, whom we also see.

Morwen studied the letter as far as she could before opening it. Though the writing was beautiful as ever, the elegant Tengwar curving in equal strokes, the parchment was a lot more rough than usually, when letters from the king would arrive to her husband. These letters were rare, but usually came every year or two, and then all that Húrin would only talk about them - how beautifully this or that was worded, how fine the paper was, how unbelievable it was that Fingon’s hand touched this very parchment. 

Morwen was not one to treasure letters and envelopes unless they held anything that would be useful later. She therefore did not take as much care as her husband in tearing the seal, leaving just enough to be recognizable. She read through it hastily, feeling something in her stomach clench tighter with each new line. No, no, it could not be true!

Yet the letter’s bold Tengwar read, without any sign of wavering, the words that Morwen was so horrified with:

“To the Lady of Dor-Lómin, in hopes of finding her in good health, from Fingon King of the Noldor, in the fortress of Romenost.   
With a heavy heart and hope that you will find the strength to bear these tidings, I must inform you of the most grave news. On the shores of the lake which we reached at the end of the first day, we were ambushed by Orcs, two scores at the least. By the grace of Eru, your husband, his brother, and I survived, though four of our men, two of your land and two of mine, fell in that ambush. We were saved by the scouts of Romenost, but not before the Lords Húrin and Huor and I were wounded. While I am wounded only lightly and the Lord Huor is not in danger, your husband was wounded quite grievously. We still wait for him to wake.   
I personally shall inform you of any changes in his condition, and hope that you will take this news well. Have faith, for hope yet remains of his swift recovery.”

There were several more lines to the letter, words of farewell and good luck, as Morwen later found out. But she stopped there, for she knew that the rest would be no more than formalities. The letter fell out of her hand and she leant back in her chair, closing her eyes. What could have been worse?

Yet was she not the Lady of Dor-Lómin, was she not the wife of Húrin son of Galdor? She allowed herself only several minutes to grieve. Then she collected herself. She opened her eyes, and went back to the daily procedures, all the while thinking of how she would tell her people the news of the ambush. 

During dinner that day, only the most observant of the servants saw that her bearing was more stiff than usual, and that she was more solemn than her wont.Dinner went as usual in the house of Húrin, and only at its end did it vary from the usual proceedings, for Morwen called to one of the servants and told him to gather all the people to the courtyard. Half an hour later, the people of Dor-Lómin returned to their homes, devastated and solemn, and prayed that their lord would live.

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Húrin woke to pain. Pain that overwhelmed his mind and made him unconsciously grind his teeth together, pain that made his eyes water, pain that radiated from his left side. For the first few minutes, or, as it seemed to him, decades, he could only feel that. Then he forced his heavy eyelids up and looked around. Or at least attempted to.

He could see light, and a low ceiling above him. Before he could register much more, he felt a strong wave of nausea roll over him, and closed his eyes. He felt around with his hand instead, the right one. He was lying on something soft, something that took him several seconds to recognize as a bed. After further observation, he also found that the room was warm and that something was wrapped tightly around his torso. After some thought, he realised that it was a bandage, tightened around the area from which the pain came. 

Then it all came back to him. The ride, the ambush… fighting, trying to protect his lord… the pain, the infinitely long time before he blacked out for good… the pain… 

Then questions came to his mind, questions that caused him to panic. Where was the lord Fingon? Where was his brother? Where was he?

He needed to get out, to see his brother, his lord… to find out what in Arda had happened, and where he was. His body felt heavy, yet he nearly managed to push the covers off himself before he heard the sound of footsteps and a firm hand stopped him.

“Where are you going, son of Galdor?” asked a voice that Húrin would recognize anywhere - the voice of Fingon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is really going slower than I thought… Please review if you read this!


	15. A Change in Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It has been quite a while since I was at this, but I had been working on my other story and could not really get into this story’s mindset. But I shall attempt chapter 15 now!

Fingon sat at the bedside of Húrin, praying that Ilúvatar would not call the Adan’s spirit to him quite yet. He found himself caring for the man in front of him by a lot more than he had cared for anyone in hundreds of years. The last time when he had actually prayed for someone’s survival was in the beginning of this age of the world, when he saw the horrors that Morgoth could subject a being to. He had not sat by a bedside for hours on end, holding a limp hand in his own, since he became the crown prince. And that was precisely what he was now doing, moreover, doing for a mortal.

He had checked on Húrin’s brother not long before, and saw that he was recovering quite nicely from the concussion and the minor cuts and bruises that he had gotten in the skirmish. In a day or two he would be allowed to go out of bed.

Húrin, on the other hand, was doing worse than could be expected. The only reasonable explanation that the healers could come up with for the fact that he still had barely woken was that the wound to his arm was poisoned. Otherwise, he should have been well aware of his surroundings by now. 

When Húrin had come about an hour or so ago, he had panicked, afraid for his brother and confused by where he was and how he got there. Fingon had to hold him down then, trying to comfort him with words, and trying his hardest not to remember how he had done something so similar to a red-haired cousin, though this case was definitely not as grave.

The next time Húrin woke was his fever had broken, and he did not seem so confused. He opened his eyes with a moan and struggled only for a few seconds before relaxing and listening to Fingon’s voice which told him of what had happened in the past few days. Fingon did not know how much the man understood, but kept talking calmly and soothingly. 

After several minutes, Húrin drifted back to sleep. He woke more frequently and for longer periods of time for the next three days, and on the fourth day was quite aware, though confined to bed. The healers declared that in a week’s time he would be able to travel again, though carefully and slowly. 

At the same time, Huor was allowed to get out of bed, though not for long. He spent most of his time in a chair in his brother’s room. On one of the days near around the middle of the week, the three lords closed the doors to the room and discussed something in low voices. When the door opened, the Elven lord handed a letter to the healer. “Please send it to Dor-Lómin, and have the messenger stay the night there.”

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Morwen sat in the main room, speaking about farming strategies with one of the lords of the land. The lord was about to respond to some inquiry of hers when noise outside, which had been pretty quiet until then, grew to a crescendo. After several loud seconds, the doors opened and a familiar man came in. The noise level went back down once Morwen called for silence and ordered the doors to be shut once more. 

She down at the man and recognized him as the messenger from Romenost, looking exactly like he did four days ago when they saw each other last. He stood in the exact same pose, holding out a letter written with the same hand on similar parchment. While the wife in her groaned and feared what she would find out, the lady in her stood up tall and, with a cold smile and polite formulae, took the letter and gave several commands for housing. 

The news that she saw darkened her mood for the next few days. Fingon wrote that things were a lot worse than the Eldar had anticipated in their counsels, and that travelling grew more dangerous by the day. He said that, after long discussion, it had been agreed that the party would not return to Dor-Lómin, but head out to the March of Maedhros to hold the meeting earlier than planned.

Fingon asked to send the rest of the Noldor to Romenost and sent quite a bit of empty formulae, something that was done by far too often for Morwen’s taste. The only thing that cheered her up after the devastating news was that the last part of the letter consisted of a different handwriting, of the handwriting of her husband. Húrin’s words spoke of hope and of fair things and of memories of their youth, and with a pang Morwen realised that he knew how distressed she would be and did what he could to comfort her. 

The next morning, Morwen sent out the Noldor and the messengers. She stood long at the gate, looking at the dust behind the group of men until they disappeared behind the bend of the road. Then she stumbled inside the house and went to her room. The guards said later that for a long time there was a light in her room, though none dared to trouble their lady at such a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time! Reviews and comments are welcome!


	16. To Himring!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurin, Huor, and Fingon go off... last chapter for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had many beta-requests in the past few weeks. I am really sorry about this. I have found myself having very little time, and here, finally, is the sixteenth chapter. I have decided to make it a conclusion for now. Part 2 will follow soon, suggestions for titles are welcome! I shall draft it out first, to make updates more frequent. Please enjoy this last chapter, online hugs to everyone who had stayed with me through this! Please tell me how this was, constructive criticism and suggestions for future writing are always welcome!

It has been three weeks since the day when Húrin, Huor, and Fingon set out for the dreadful hunt. The last two days were quite full of activity, especially for Fingon. He sent messengers to his cousin in Himring, telling him to expect three lords and several scores of troops in several weeks. He sent a messengers to Morwen, asking for the return of the Noldor who were to leave with him. He sent messengers to his second-in-command in Mithrim, which they were going to pass through, asking for supplies to last them the journey to Mithrim. Whenever he managed to get some free time, he would keep company to the brothers, discussing their homeland and how it differed from the lands that they were going to pass through.

Fingon could not help but be nervous on the last night of their stay. The first part of their journey, from there to Mithrim, would take two or three days, depending on how well Húrin would bear it. Then they would stop for the night in Mithrim and see what news there were in the North. It was the last, and longest, stretch of the way that Fingon had doubts about.

They had to get from Mithrim to Himring. There were several ways to get there, but all save one seemed to be out of question. The could not go through Doriath, because of he was a Noldo and because Húrin said that his heart sank at the name*. There was the way to the south of Doriath, but that would take way too long, and cause the travelers to turn back south, wasting four precious days on the journey to Mithrim and back. There was also the way to the north of Doriath, but it had always been dangerous, and now it must have been even more so. Many Elves that went that way were never seen again, or returned years after they were lost. Fingon knew that he could not afford to risk losing himself and his companions to such a fate.

The third route was the most dangerous one. And, as it happened, the one that they were going by. A month ago, Fingon would never even think of it, but now it seemed to be the only option. It went from Mithrim to Eithel Sirion, through the dusty plains of the Anfauglith, and then south, to Mithrim. The journey would take about a week if everything went well**.

Fingon was fully aware of how dangerous such a journey would be. It was the only chance, but was it worth it? Was getting to the council in Himring worth riding more than hundred leagues, most of which lay in the zone of danger? The Anfauglith was a plain that as often as not had Orcish encampments or troops in it, and Taur-nu-Fuin in the south was not much better. In the end of their journey, they could hope for the protection of Maedhros and Maglor, but ever since the Bragollach they decreased the number of patrols. Fingon hoped that his cousins would send one out for this special occasion, though Maedhros did write in his letter that it was becoming more and more difficult to keep the Orcs at bay.

Fingon had told the brothers about all three routes. They agreed that the first two were out of question, and that the third was their only hope. “We might be able to catch them by surprise,” said Húrin. “Travellers never dare to tread upon those paths nowadays, and it is possible that the Enemy does not yet have a well-organized system for dealing with those who attempt to. If it is so, we might pass unnoticed, or escape in the case that we are tracked down.”

Fingon let the words flow over him. While Huor definitely looked more relaxed at his brother’s words, Fingon had already considered that option. If it was true, then this quest would not be as suicidal as it appeared. But the logical part of his mind reminded him that the Enemy was always a step or two ahead, that surely he would have dozens of plans to counter any of their actions? On the other hand, what they were doing would be completely illogical - at least, from the point of view of Morgoth. Perhaps he had not planned that the Noldor would have such an outrageously foolish idea.

It was with such doubts that Fingon set out. The two days of the journey to Mithrim passed rather uneventfully. The twenty Noldor were silent and stone-faced, looking and listening carefully in the perfect example of the King’s private guard. There was nearly no talking, except for an occasional inquire about Húrin’s health made by his brother or Fingon or call to break camp. 

Finally, the group rode down the slopes of the Mountains of Mithrim and passed through the fortifications around the city. Fingon called out several commands to the Noldor who entered with him and greetings to those who looked up to their King. Then, he led his guests into the palace.

He entered through the heavy wooden doors and felt at once the heavy weight of grief that filled the house. It seemed like only yesterday he would return from a trip and walk into this same place, and face the throne, which currently was vacant. But only a few years ago, his father, lordly and handsome, would sit there. At his son’s entrance, Fingolfin would stand up and walk forwards, giving Fingon a light hug and beginning to inquire about his journey, or to recount the events that happened at the lake during his absence, or simply to lead his son to a hot bath or a merry meal. Now, all Fingon felt was grief and guilt. Never again would his father look into his eyes with care or concern. Valar, he would be glad even to see the spark of anger! Anything, be it good or bad.

He had not thought that it was possible to miss someone so terribly. Yes, there have been times when he had been sundered from his siblings or cousins, feeling lonely. But his father had been through so much with him! Especially since Fingon felt that overwhelming guilt that Makalaurë used to talk about so much. The feeling that he could have stopped his father from going onto such a suicidal mission, from falling into such deadly despair. 

Fingon forced himself out of his thoughts. Looking back at his companions, he saw that they were staring around the great hall in wonder and amazement. He saw Huor lean towards his brother and whisper something into his ear. Húrin blushed a bit at that, and quickly whispered back something that made Huor fall silent once more. Then both brothers looked at Fingon, smiling sheepishly.

After an evening of merry rest and a night of reminiscence, Fingon and the brothers set out once more. This time, they were accompanied by two scores of Noldor. 

“So we leave,” mused Húrin. “Leave either to the greatest misfortune or to the greatest luck that we have yet had. May the Valar help us!”

And so the three lords and the forty Noldor set out, the rising sun in their faces, hoping against hope that they would make it to the Halls of Himring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"his heart sank at the name". I am going off of what the Children of Hurin said on the matter. When Húrin and Morwen discuss what the latter should do in case they are defeated in the Nirnaeth, several places, such as Brethil and Doriath, come up and they both feel uneasy about them, foreshadowing the disaster that Túrin would cause in those places. I am thinking that Húrin would somehow feel like that too. If you don't agree, it is no big deal, as it will probably not come up again in this story.  
> ** I calculated the distances and times by using the Internet. As the bird flies, the distance from Mithrim to Himring appeared to be around a hundred leagues, but given that in the beginning and in the end of the journey there would be mountains and that the party will not go in a straight line, it would be a little more. The horse speed that I took was a little under 50 miles per day, similar to the speeds of medieval horses in Europe.
> 
> Please tell me what you thought! Until next time!  
> Melkor

**Author's Note:**

> So that was that! Please tell me how you liked it, I would love to hear from anyone who bothers to write! Comments on mistakes are also welcome!


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